


Resonance

by RenaRoo



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Multiverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23586448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: Miles Morales is the brand new Spider-Man with all the responsibilities, burdens, and heartache therein. With the crowds being harder to please and his rogues gallery looking more formidible by each day, Miles doubts his competency as the one and only Spider-Man. At first, he looks to his predecessor’s support group for advice, and what he ends up getting is a lot more complications.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	1. The Real Deal

**Author's Note:**

> I have been a Spider-Man fan since birth, all owed to my dad and uncle who were the family comic book nerds and collectors long before I came around. I grew up on the adventures of Peter Parker and, when I was old enough to buy my own comics, I was obsessed with following more members of the spider-family from Mayday Parker to Anya Corazon. But in the last decade or so, my interest in really writing or drawing for the Spiders was put on the backburner. 
> 
> Into the Spider-Verse reignited my love, though, and it’s become one of my favorite movies as well as responsible for making me a full Spider-fan again. I knew I wanted to pay tribute to that and just what a fantastic job the movie did, but I wasn’t sure what story I wanted to tell until recently. 
> 
> So I hope this is an enjoyable ride for you guys, I’ve been having a blast writing it. It’s going to be a long one! Let’s hope I can keep to a Friday Updates schedule~

Every morning for the last month had started the same.

His alarm sounded, he groaned in rhythm to its blaring, turned over, fumbled with his phone, and turned it off. Then, just before he could gently float back into sleep, the alarm in the bunk beneath him would sound off and a hand would slap the baseboard to encourage him to get a move on.

Miles appreciated, but also _hated,_ that his roommate had taken the news about him being Spider-Man so well.

“Okay,” Ganke Lee said, fully awake as he slid from his mattress to his computer chair, smoothly sliding across their dorm floor toward his desk. He listed off the assignments that both of them had due for the day, things that Miles should have completed the night before. Checking them in the morning kept his grades from slipping due to his nighttime adventures. And the _moment_ Miles good sleepily assert that they were all done, Ganke would turn on the four monitors to his desk.

The glare of the light was always enough to force Miles into dawning acceptance that Ganke wasn’t letting up.

He stretched, nursed any wounds or bruises, then leap with extra-human flexibility and athleticism from the top bunk to the dressers on the other side of the room.

In the early days, Ganke would have excitedly taken it in. A month after, Ganke wasn’t even looking Miles’ direction.

“Okay,” Ganke said again, turning in his chair to present Miles with a map for his morning run as Spider-Man. “If you do this in thirty minutes, you’ll have time for a shower.”

Miles murmured incoherently, slipping into the legs of his suit before he even glanced at the map. Once he did, he dropped his shoulders and threw back his head. “Man! You’ve gotta be _kidding_ me! Yancy Street? I _always_ run into something on Yancy Street. And when I run into things on Yancy Street, I won’t be back in _thirty minutes_ , are you kidding?”

“And then it’ll look great that the new Spider-Man is doing good before eight in the morning on everyone’s commutes,” Ganke pointed out knowingly. “Not to mention, hard to find out that the new Spider-Man is a student at Brooklyn Visions Academy if he’s spotted thirty minutes away before school starts.”

Pulling on the rest of his suit and reaching for his mask, Miles hesitated. He looked intently at Ganke for a moment. “You know, I’ve been Spider-Man for over a month now,” he said. “How long do you think they’ll still be calling me the _new_ Spider-Man? When do I just become _the_ Spider-Man?”

Ganke pulled a pained expression and tilted his head. “You sure you want that? To be _the_ Spider-Man already?”

No, Miles didn’t want it. But it was a thought that was already nagging him.

Sighing, Miles looked from his mask to Ganke’s mask. “Yancy Street and back? You’re killing me with these morning workouts, man.”

With his mask pulled on, Miles ran for the window that Ganke eagerly sprung open.

“Wouldn’t be a workout if it wasn’t hard!” Ganke encouraged him all the way out of the building.

The moment the wind rushed against his face, the haze of sleep and morning dreariness left Miles’ body. Every muscle, every bone was in motion, flying into the air. He breathed in Brooklyn and then, with his web-shooters at the ready, shot toward the nearest building with confidence.

After a month, the motion Peter — but not _that_ Peter — taught him was already second nature.

Aim with the hips, look where you want it to hit, double-tap to release, _thwip_ it out again, swing, release, _thwip_ —

He could have swung through the entire city, but he had grown warier of the overuse of his web-shooters after a few weekends of just that attitude. There was nothing more aggravating than being low on the web fluid than being low on it when he _needed_ them. And Ganke was still experimenting with the formula they obtained, insisting his batches were still too unreliable compared to what Miles could pick up at the Parker household.

And, somewhat cowardly, Miles had gone out of his way to avoid being in the Parker household more than absolutely necessary in his month as Spider-Man.

Miles utilized his newly enhanced athleticism to land at the top of a building and hit the ground running. His feet carried him quicker than they ever have in his life before, and he hadn’t even broken out in sweat yet.

Whenever he _did_ grow his backbone again and heads to Ms. Parker’s house, he was going to thank her for the extremely breathable fabric she has made his suit from. Then again, that might broach the topic of how she _didn’t_ build the suit for him. She built it for the original Spider-Man.

Her nephew. The Spider-Man who died a hero before Miles had even an inkling of his own potential.

When the next building over was too tall for Miles to simply leap to its roof, Miles exercised his wall-crawling.

His fingers and toes locked adhesively to the surfaces of the buildings and he shimmied across.

Strangely enough, the _crawling_ had been the most bizarre bodily sensation for Miles as he continued stretching his _spider-legs,_ so to speak. Swinging and leaping were challenges that had grown into thrills. But crawling had made his body contort and move repeatedly in a way that felt so unfamiliar to jumping or walking.

Ganke has suggested he watch videos of real spiders crawling, but that sounded too weird even for Miles.

He wondered if any of the other Spider-People had felt this way about crawling. It was a question that would be worth asking if he ever got the chance.

More than anything else, though, wall-crawling ate more into his morning run’s allotted time than running or swinging did. As a result, it was the thing that needed his practice the most and happened to get it the least on most mornings.

The moment Miles was out of his comfort zone, out of the Brooklyn limits, he changed tactics and shifts to swinging again.

He was under half of his time and has already reached Yancy Street. If he had any luck, he could have turned around then and there, called the morning successful, and headed back to Brooklyn Visions Academy without anyone the wiser.

Spider luck true to form, there _was_ a disturbance on Yancy Street. A hold up in a deli, but Miles was quick to take care of it.

Rather, the _new Spider-Man_ is quick to take care of it.

He even figured, since he had wall crawled a good amount of his travel, he could spare the extra web fluid on _thwips_ for each of the gunmen’s mouths. Just to avoid the general annoyance factor.

And while Miles would go to his grave confidently declaring that the best delis in the city were found in Brooklyn, he traitorously accepted the Yancy Street deli owner’s offer of a breakfast burrito to go.

Its aluminum foil shined at him with the early morning sunlight as Miles got back onto his rooftop trail and beckoned him to slow down, take a break, and breathe in the sweet aromas.

He was working out so much as Spider-Man, he had to have doubled his calories over the month, so the breakfast burrito wasn’t going to set him back so far as meals were concerned.

After a few savory moments with the burrito, his wristwatch went off, forcing Miles to realize that he was off his time and there was almost _no way_ he was going to have time for a shower when he got back.

“Aw, man,” he groaned, gripping to his burrito in one hand while lining up with his next building. _Aim with the hips._

To further show off just how much he had mastered the art of swinging, Miles made it the rest of the way to the academy one-handed, finishing each bite of his burrito along the way.

He also made it a point to land on the recycling bend and toss the foil, pose with a kid from Brooklyn Middle for a selfie, and backflip over traffic before swinging the rest of his way to school.

Miles scaled the walls, found the custodial closet window Ganke had strategically unlocked for him and dressed for his day in less than thirty seconds.

He smelled like sweat and breakfast burritos by the time he emerged into the hallway and raced toward his first class of the day. But Miles also figured that there were few first-year boys who didn’t have similar smells to them anyway.

Deep down, at least, he knew he had the excuse of being the _new Spider-Man._

And that was nearly enough satisfaction on its own to let him pass through the day.

Ganke’s schedule was an A-block compared to Miles’ own B-block, with their only real intersecting class throughout the week being chemistry. It made their rendezvous much tighter two out of the five days, kept mostly to the hallways and cafeteria.

Yet, even with those constraints, Ganke’s presence had become instrumental to Miles’ day functioning.

“There’s a pop quiz in Schaffer’s pre-calc,” Ganke informed him, taking a look at the leftover web shooter fluid.

“What, really?” Miles asked in disbelief, he looked down at his books. He hadn’t even grabbed his pre-calc. “I’m doing fine in there. Shaky on the sine and cosine stuff, but you’ll never get me off my _tangents.”_

For a moment, it seemed like Ganke hadn’t heard him, forcing Miles to laugh at his own joke. Then Ganke looked up over his glasses with one brow raised. “Seriously?”

“I’m seriously good with pre-calc,” Miles assured him. “Though you sure you’re not going to get locked up in nerd prison for letting lowly ol’ me know about a pop quiz?”

“Why? Everyone whispers warnings about quizzes around here, have since the first day,” Ganke shrugged.

“Oh,” Miles expressed, glancing off. It was still difficult to be confronted with the fact that he had not made friends at the school despite his mother’s encouragement and his mild lies to his father about doing just that. He swallowed dryly. “Well, thanks for breaking the nerd code for me.”

“You’re going to have to replace these probably by tomorrow,” Ganke warned him.

“We’ve got chem lab tomorrow, we could make some together while Doc Kuranja isn’t looking,” Miles offered. “You said you had some ideas.”

“Are you kidding? We still don’t know if my use of the _regular_ formula is stable or not yet!” Ganke squeaked back. “I don’t want them to blow on you or harden on you or—“

Miles pulled a face, noticing that Ganke’s word choice and hyperventilating was drawing some unwarranted attention. He held up his hands and motioned for Ganke to lower. “Dude, chill! It was just a suggestion. I’ve still got, y’know, my contact. My person.”

Finally, Ganke breathed easier. “Sorry. I just don’t want to kill Spider-Man.”

Flinching slightly, Miles glanced off. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Here,” Ganke said, handing back the web-shooters. “For your, uh, web person.”

“Right,” Miles said, quickly storing the shooters away in the backpack he had put on over his chest. He shuffled them toward the back of the mess he had shoved in, crunching and scraping other unknowns within the bag’s depths.

“I’ll catch you at lunch, good luck on your pre-calculus not-so-pop quiz,” Ganke said after an intense scan of his watch. He didn’t wave, didn’t wait for Miles’ reply. He just took off in the direction of the language arts wing and left Miles slightly off balance.

“Yeah, sure, man,” Miles called after him, though it appeared to be on deaf ears.

He waited a moment before walking toward the math wing himself, thinking over his recent lessons. Each angle, each parabola, though, always came back to web-swinging across the city, to his gravity and momentum. It was the only thing he could _think_ about.

Lucky for him, unlike in English, it translated fairly well to the material.

When he finished up pre-calculus and headed for lunch, Miles actually felt very good about everything that had gone on in his day, missing a morning shower notwithstanding.

And, strangely, lunch was more pleasurable and something to look forward to when he knew for a fact that he would have someone else sitting with him.

What he was less prepared for, however, was the ever-present call of his other responsibilities.

The moment it was three-fifteen and the final bells for the day rang, Miles could feel the vibrations of his phone in his pocket.

While other students walked to the commons, out to the plaza, or just to their dorms to get started on another night full of work, Miles stood and answered his phone.

“Mami?” he answered the call, same as every other school day, and proceeded to start a thirty-minute conversation.

The only times they were shorter were when his mom was on call at work and had to be pulled away. If she were at home, like she was that day, she was willing to stretch the call for an hour. It was easier for her to do that by, every ten minutes or so, pawning the phone off to Miles’ dad who rattled on about work and the weather and occasionally a semi-positive story about the new Spider-Man.

It was more than a little tiresome.

Miles still had things to check off on his list of a regular day — schoolwork and artwork and some new training plan Ganke had tried to sell him the night before. It felt like every moment of phone time was cutting into that.

But the urgency of getting off the phone grew more immediate when he passed through the main corridor and saw the crowds of other students gathered, staring up at the big monitor screen.

Hesitating, Miles walked back and missed whatever story his mother was in the middle of telling as he watched the breaking news alert.

Massive robbery taking place in Brooklyn, costumed robber shooting electricity everywhere and cackling maniacally, there was a need for the _new Spider-Man._

At the same time he could hear his father shuffling around and shouting something on the other end of the phone, Miles began racing out of the commons area. “Mami! Sorry, something just came up, I’ve gotta go! Playing, uh, chess after school! ¡Te amo! ¡Hasta luego!”

“Miles—“ his mother began to argue but Miles hung up on her, fully knowing he would get an earful from it later.

The moment he was out of the school and ducking into an alley, Miles was shuffling through his mess of a backpack. Toward the bottom, barely hidden beneath assignments and art books, was Miles’ already sweaty suit and his web-shooters.

“Man, I have _got_ to get organized,” he noted to himself.

Once he had his suit, changing was a quick matter. He even had his mask on before his phone went off again, that time with the default setting picture of a dinosaur signaling Ganke. Miles was quick to answer.

“Dude,” Ganke’s voice came through clearly.

“I saw! I’m on the way!” Miles informed him, stuffing his uniform sloppily into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulders.

“Do you know who that is?” Ganke asked.

“Know who who is?” Miles asked, already using his free hand and his feet to climb up the side of the school for greater height.

“The bank robber, it’s the old Spider-Man’s villain,” Ganke explained hurriedly. “But I think it’s different? Electro.”

“Electro for electricity, clever,” Miles said, reaching the top of the building and rotating so that his back was to the wall. He looked forward, aimed with his hips, set his eyes on the target.

“Yeah, but it’s _different,”_ Ganke insisted. “It might be a different person.”

“Ganke, call me back after and we’ll talk about it, I promise! Right now I’ve gotta get going so I need both hands,” Miles informed him.

“No you don’t, you had a burrito on your way back this morning,” Ganke argued. “This is important, Spider-Man.”

“It might be a different dude in the mask, that puts Electricity-o and me on the same foot. I’ve _got_ this, Ganke, I’m not as big of a dummy as you thought I was when we got roomed together, remember?” Miles groaned. He shot the web shooter and kicked off from the school. “Catch me on the news!”

He swung through the city, mindlessly putting his phone back into his backpack midair, then used both arms to swing.

Beneath him, Miles could hear the awes and supportive shouts of the citizens below.

There was still mourning, still _We Love You P.P._ signs throughout the city, but in the past month, there was more hope, more relief as Miles swung through the streets. Because New York _needed_ Spider-Man again.

And Miles felt rewarded and assured to be that guy. _The_ guy.

It fueled him to go faster, to prove himself and all the faith the other Spider-People had shown in him the last month.

Because the specifics of the bank and Electro weren’t part of the routine, but the _new Spider-Man_ was — Miles being there for his city was as routine and in his bones by that point as the suit itself.

He was so full of confidence as he came across the bank, he barely flinched when the front wall’s brick and glass were blown out by an explosive flash. Miles steadied himself, resting against the walls as he waited for a clear view of Electro to come out.

And Electro did, bright greens and yellows of the suit visible from streets away.

What Miles wasn’t expecting was for the rest of her figure. “Okay,” he said, tilting his head, “maybe Ganke _did_ have more to let me know before I hung up. Because I never remember Electro looking like that on the news.”

Police cars filed in, sirens blaring, and immediately jumped out of their cars, guns at the ready.

With a smirk, Electro slung a duffle bag over her shoulder with one hand then slung the freehand outward toward all of the vehicles.

Electricity poured from her fingertips and sent most of the vehicles flying back.

“I’ve got this!” Miles rallied himself as he leaped from his perch.

With the push of his legs, Miles sent his body flying at an incline toward the police officers. Toward the arc of his descent, he used his web-shooters to rapid-fire aim at the chest of each of the officers in trouble. The moment he had made web contact with their chests, he aimed his left web shooter for the top of the bank building and grabbed onto both sets of lines.

His own body the fulcrum, Miles twisted into a swing and hoisted the leveraged officers up with him. It was enough force to lift all of them out of danger _and_ to pull up with Miles’ swing.

There were a number of yells, but no one was around the police cars as they crashed or exploded against the electric propulsions of Electro.

For her part, Electro seemed to have subscribed to the _cool guys don’t look at explosions_ school of thought and was beginning to walk confidently down the street before Miles interrupted her plans. She quickly turned on her heels and locked her sights on Miles.

“Well, I was _wondering_ when I’d get a chance to swing at the new little bug on the streets,” she growled.

“Wow, never been called a _bug_ before!” Miles scoffed, landing on the other side of the street and putting down the officers with him. Most of them seemed dazed if not outright ready to vomit from the experience. “Don’t worry, officers, I’ve got this!”

Confidently, Miles turned on his heels only to be sent flying back.

The pain was _immense._ Arguably the worst pain he’d felt since taking on Kingpin nearly a month ago. His every muscle and sinew jerked violently against him. Nothing was listening to his brain’s directions and, worst of all, his brain felt as though it had been lit on fire.

He was on his back on the sidewalk before his lungs could expand again. They crackled at the rush of air and Miles felt as though his heart was seizing in his chest.

His fingers and toes were curled as his arms began to somewhat listen to him again. He pushed through the pain, trying to uncurl every joint and move them. Finger by finger, toe by toe. There was a smell of burning rubber that was getting harder and harder to ignore as well as a terrible pain in his back.

“Spider-Man!”

“GET UP!”

“She’s coming!”

“Oh my god!”

His ears felt muffled but, somewhat obtusely, Miles could feel the warnings he was getting. None, though, was louder than the Spider-Senseblaring into every nerve, every vibration in his body. He coughed through another painful breath and beat his clenched fist on the ground.

“No matter what, _always get back up!”_ he berated himself. “No matter how many times I get hit, _I always get back up!”_

Two green, insulated boots came to a stop right in front of Miles on the sidewalk just as his vision began to clear. When he visually traced them upward, he saw the slick greens and yellows of the suit and, most aggravating of all, the shiny toothed grin of Electro.

“Cute motto, bug,” she joked. Slowly, she drew up one hand, the fingers ungloved as she put two together and formed a gun to point at him. “Can’t get up when you’re dead.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Miles sassed back before holding up his right web shooter and shooting it straight onto her hand, insulating it with a massive glove of web. _THWIP._

“What the—“ Electro sputtered, stepping back in surprise.

She was attempting to reground herself, but Miles was on his feet and shooting another dose of web fluid onto her knees, tying her legs together. _THWIP._

“Why you—“ _THWIP._

He shot another web over her mouth, causing her to roar, albeit muffled.

Grinning underneath his mask, Miles aimed his left web shooter for her exposed hand.

_TH—_

The sputtering noise caught Miles by surprise, and he looked down at his web shooter as he attempted a second time. It didn’t even make a noise, just compressed air wheezing through. “Uh-oh,” he muttered, looking to his right hand as it did the same.

He was out, and he had shown off with the web-shooters before covering Electro’s other available hand.

As Miles looked back, he could see Electro using her free hand to rip off the web from her mouth. A dangerous look grew on her face as she took the same freehand and pointed right for Miles’ chest.

“Hey, kid, ever been around a bug zapper?” she asked cockily just before lighting Miles up.

If the first blast of electricity had been painful, Miles was sent into another world by the second blast. He was thrown back, hitting into the bricks of the opposing building. His entire body seized up and sent him crumpling to the ground. He folded over his stomach and let out a pained groan.

His entire body was painful and throbbing as he lifted his head up just enough and watched Electro walking away with ease.

“Oh, well,” she called in a sing-song voice, “wonder if the _real_ Spider-Man would’ve given me a workout.”

It took some time, and the assistance of two of the officers he had saved earlier, but Miles got back up.

As much as the shock from Electro had stung, the embarrassment and the words stung even more.

Not to mention the embarrassment of having to use his invisibility to walk back to the school without his web-shooters to rely on.

He had a bad feeling, after a month of being Spider-Man, things were _not_ about to get easier for him.


	2. A Trip to Forest Hills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am late by a whole day and I absolutely cannot apologize enough for those of you who were waiting for this update yesterday! There is no good excuse. As much as I’m still working and teaching, I had time to get this done before today and the delays were all my own laziness. I am so sorry! Hopefully I’ll get better and back in the swing of writing regular updates and have the next chapter out Friday! 
> 
> That being said, I had a blast writing this chapter and am so excited to lay the ground work for the larger world Resonance will be taking place in! And I’m grateful for everyone who has shown their support for this fic so far!
> 
> Special shout outs to @babybatbrat, @secretlystephaniebrown, and @notatroll7 for their support on tumblr and AO3!! It means so very much, thank you!

Miles looked into the mirror, hands gripping the sink, and turned his chin slowly side to side.

“This sucks,” he surmised to his reflection. He groaned as he reached up and drug his hands down his face only to predictably flinch at the pain from his bruised jawline.

The bruises on his jaw were molted looking, purpled and pinked shining against his dark skin. It was noticeable, especially in how puffy his neck had grown overnight. But, he supposed, it at least wasn’t over his cheek or one of his eyes. That would have been near impossible to cover.

Sighing, Miles looked over and poked suspiciously at the scarf Ganke had offered him.

His thoughts on the scarf did not have too much time to develop, however, as the bathroom door came swinging open. Said roommate shouldered on in, carrying a load of books and papers.

“Hey, man, you need to _knock_ before busting on into places like this!” Miles croaked, voice still sounding off and sore.

“I knew what you were doing in here, you were starring in the mirror and complaining,” Ganke said, putting down the laundry basket full of books and beginning to dump them out on the floor. The moment it was clear, he began picking up the towels sprawled around the tile. He still hadn’t looked up to make eye contact.

“Dude,” Miles groaned, dropping his shoulders to give further effect to his full-body eye roll. “I’m not complaining!” As the eye roll ended, Miles’ shoulders hitched and he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. From the new angle, he could see even _more_ of the bruise purpling the skin just beneath his ear. He reached up and tenderly stroked it. “Aw, man.”

Catching himself, Miles glanced down toward Ganke just as Ganke was looking up to raise an eyebrow at him.

Forcing a cough, Miles cleared his throat. “A-anyway, thanks for the scarf. Looks like I’ll definitely be using it today. But maybe I can, like, spider-heal up quick or something.”

Ganke’s brows knitted together in confusion. “You _still_ don’t know all your powers?” he asked critically.

Despite himself, Miles shrugged. “Hey, I had like ten minutes with the first guy and, like, less than a day with everyone else. I’m lucky I learned the web-shooters were mechanical.”

Any time Peter Parker — _their_ Peter Parker — came up in conversation, no matter how casual Miles attempted to make it, Ganke shifted uncomfortably. It was like he suddenly couldn’t get enough room between the two of them when he remembered that Miles was not _that_ Spider-Man.

It was enough to make Miles mildly uncomfortable as well.

“It’s something you’ve got to find out,” Ganke said determinedly. “You’ve gotta find _all_ of this stuff out about your body and your powers and, well, how you don’t end up _Spider-Splat._ It’s really kind of negligent for you not to, Miles.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Miles said, glancing at the mirror again to get more of a look at the rest of his body.

His jaw had its workout, but it was the rest of Miles’ body that had taken the brunt end of the punishment from his tangling with Electro the day before. And it had _definitely_ been the rest of his body that he had _felt_ that morning after he rolled out of bed an hour later than his morning workout schedule had required.

As far as he and Ganke had been able to determine, there were no broken bones, but Miles’ arms, legs, and ribs were a patchwork of angry bruising.

Worst of all, though, was the ugly open sores on his back, black and red with the skin singed. He had made the mistake of brushing his fingers over it the night before when Ganke was helping him clean them, but he hadn’t attempted again.

“Imagine if that suit wasn’t insulated,” Ganke whistled, his gaze following Miles’ own.

“Dude, after _yesterday,_ I’m not even sure I believe it is,” Miles whined.

“Oh, it definitely is, or else you’d be crispier,” Ganke replied easily, picking up the basket of dirty towels to take out of the bathroom. “Remember those pictures we looked up last night?”

Gagging, Miles shivered. “How could I not, dude? I’m scarred for life now!” He looked worriedly at his back. “Um, hopefully only metaphorically.”

“Look on the bright side,” Ganke offered, shrugging his shoulders. “The worst of it can be covered with your uniform. People may notice you walking stiff, but at least it’s not going to be visible like it is on your face.”

“Yeah, real great,” Miles sighed, finally reaching for his neatly folded uniform on the side of the sink’s basin. “Guess I should think ahead for those situations, though. Never really worried about it before, but I guess that could be something kind of regular if that’s what one of the _old Spider-Man’s_ basic baddies is capable of doing.”

“You could just not get hit,” Ganke deadpanned. “Always the best option in my opinion.”

“Gee, thanks for the stellar advice, man,” Miles grumbled as he pulled on his undershirt. Try as he might maneuver around it, the fabric grazed over the burns and caused a chill of pain to rush outward through his spine. He bit his lip to keep from getting too loud, but couldn’t avoid the rush of strung together expletives from sputtering out of his mouth.

Panting, Miles felt the wave of shock pass him. He opened his eyes to see Ganke’s shocked expression.

Grimacing at himself, Miles finished tenderly pulling down on the rest of his undershirt. “Um. I meant _ow.”_

“Hmm,” Ganke said in response, leaning back against the doorframe.

“Hey, my dad’s a cop. I’ve picked up a few choice expressions,” Miles defended, grabbing the rest of his uniform.

“It’s not that,” Ganke dismissed, tilting his head curiously. “Did you think about what I said yesterday? About getting some medical-grade supplies to keep in our room for stuff like this? I think it’s going to be a smart move.”

“I thought the best option was to not get hit,” Miles retorted.

“I’m being serious here,” Ganke said in earnest.

“And I’m _definitely_ not using my weekend trip to stock up on my mom’s nursing stuff,” Miles groaned. “Do you know how much she’d freak if she even saw this bruise? I got a scab on my knee once and she had me elevate it and ice it for the rest of the afternoon!”

Ganke hummed again, glancing toward the door to leave. But he lingered instead of making his way out.

“Miles, you gotta get supplies, start being more prepared,” Ganke lectured. “Like with your web-shooters.”

“I know, man,” Miles grunted, popping his head through the cream vest of his uniform and finally putting on the last layers of clothing. “How quick do you think we can whip up replacement fluid in chemistry lab today?”

That caused a sputtering of noise from Ganke before he violently shook his head. “What? No way, dude, I told you. Until I know exactly what I’m doing, I am _not_ going to make that web shooter fluid for you. I don’t want to—“

Throwing his head back, Miles moaned at the ceiling. “I know, I _know._ You don’t want to be the guy who killed the _new Spider-Man._ I get it.” He rolled his head carefully, avoiding the sporadic shots of pain from his jaw as much as he could. When he met Ganke’s gaze, he tried to look as emphatic as possible. “If we don’t make our own, though, I’m going to have to _go get some._ And if I do that, it means I’ll have to, you know,” he motioned with his arms, “ _go_ and see, like, _her again._ And I just don’t know if I can handle that level of awkward.”

“You’re going to have to,” Ganke said pointedly. “And why _wouldn’t_ you want to see her? She seems like a cool old lady. And you said she was supporting you. And made tea. What more could you want?”

“Uh, to _not_ remind an old lady constantly that her nephew-slash-son died and I’m going around wearing his hand-me-downs like a skin suit and taking his identity,” Miles countered quickly. “That’s kind of how I would like to live my life — spider-wise or other — if I could.”

“Well you can’t, at least not today,” Ganke argued, shouldering the door to leave.

Miles was more than prepared to leave the conversation where it stood. He stepped forward, though, and immediately felt his foot slipping from beneath him. Catching himself on the wall, Miles glanced around the floor of the bathroom. Where his foot had been was one of the several notebooks and papers.

“Hey! Wait!” Miles called, just in time to get Ganke to half step back and look over his shoulder.

“Yeah?” Ganke asked back.

“Why’d you throw all my books and stuff on the floor? What was the point of that?”

“Oh, while you were healing up last night, I did some partial work for the classes you skipped the homework for,” Ganke answered nonchalantly. “It’s not everything, but it’s better than zero and failing.”

Miles blinked in surprise. “Whoa, really? I don’t even know what to say to that, dude, that’s _really_ cool of you. And unexpected. Thanks.” He then looked back down to the mess on the floor. “Wait, no, that _still_ didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, I knew the teachers needed to believe it was yours and had been shoved into a backpack overnight, so some wear and tear needed,” Ganke shrugged again.

“You are an evil genius, Ganke Lee,” Miles grinned, bending over to begin picking the books up.

“If I were, you chose a poorly in who to reveal your identity to, gotta say,” Ganke answered, rotating his wrist as he walked on to finish up his morning. “Please don’t ruin my scarf. My mom got it for me.”

“Scarf?” Miles repeated before snapping his fingers. “Oh, right! Good call!”

He grabbed his books from the floor and Ganke’s scarf from the sink counter before finishing up his morning.

From his morning onward, Miles’ school day was a practice in anxiety. More than once, he felt the eyes of his peers falling onto his scarf and looking perplexed or snide over it. It was enough to make the hairs on Miles’ skin stand on edge. He’d whirl around in the halls to see the faces of the people staring at him.

Each time he turned, however, he never found any eyes lingering on his wardrobe. At least not for long enough to equate to the rush of anxiety deep in Miles’ person.

In hindsight, it made sense.

Miles didn’t have many friends at school still, and few would notice a change to his wardrobe which still fell into the dress code.

In fact, Miles saw several scarves and scrunchies worn by students which were _out_ of academy colors and arguably could have been called out but weren’t.

After lunch, Miles’ tension had left his body and he was instead looking more toward the anxiety of his chemistry lab with Ganke. Despite Ganke’s pleas, Miles was determined to talk his roommate into making some web fluid for him. He argued, mostly to himself, that it only made _sense_ to become self-sufficient. To not bother May Parker all of the time.

He was so consumed with thinking through his debate with Ganke, that by English lit class, Miles had forgotten himself and began feeling _very_ stuffy and hot.

Pulling on his scarf, Miles sighed and leaned back against the metal desk chair.

A _jolt_ of pain radiated out from Miles’ back and he leaped to his feet with a yowl. His arms stretched back, reaching for the source of pain before Miles head began to throb with sharpened anxiety.

Looking around, Miles realized the entire classroom _plus_ his teacher were staring at him. The looks ranged from surprise to giggling.

“Oh,” Miles muttered before offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry, sorry about that.” He lowered his hands and began to sink back into his seat only for the teacher’s throat to clear.

“Mister Morales,” he fussed, eyes beady behind thick wireframe glasses. “Is there something you would like to share about _Wuthering Heights?_ Or do you have a spider crawling down your back?”

The students giggled in response, many shifting to glance toward their friends.

“Uh, probably the last one,” Miles said, sinking toward his seat again.

 _“Probably?”_ the teacher asked. “As in you aren’t sure if there’s a spider crawling down your back?”

Shiftily moving his eyes around the room, Miles grimaced. “I mean, I’m not a fan of, uh, spiders, so hopefully not? We could just, uh, keep talking about the old British people.”

That earned a few other giggles from the students, but they didn’t work to relax Miles exactly. Especially not when he realized the teacher was still staring intently at him.

“Mister Morales, is that some sort of rash on your neck?” he asked.

“What?” Miles asked before reaching up to his jawline and realizing there was no longer a scarf covering him. “Oh, uh,” he stuttered before his mind _clicked_ with an idea. “Oh, shoot, I think maybe it _was_ a spider after all. I should, like, go to the nurse!” He glanced toward the teacher, watching as the man straightened his glasses. “Please?”

The moment his teacher nodded in affirmation, Miles gathered up his belongings and booked it out into the hallway. As soon as the door closed behind him, Miles leaned against the nearest wall and let out a long, heralding breath.

He was _not_ going to the nurse, but he suddenly lacked his appetite for class and for debating Ganke to make his new web shooter fluid.

Rubbing a hand down his face, Miles sighed. “Aw, man,” he moaned to himself and shook his head.

While he had only had the opportunity to be with his mentor for the better part of a day, and the other Spider-People even less, Miles had learned quite a few things from them. Things that had carried into daily life ever since.

Some he wished he had paid more attention to from the start, like with using the bus whenever possible.

Perhaps if he had, it would have saved him some web fluid over the month.

Miles took the advice more that day, though, because he had no web shooter fluid _and_ even with spider-heightened endurance, Forest Hills was a fairly long walk from Brooklyn.

While Miles had made a point of not visiting the Parker house, he had the memory of the location burned into his memory. The neighborhood played out easily in his nightmares.

Walking from the closest bus stop, Miles couldn’t stop himself from pausing at a gated off alley, his eyes falling on broken pavement and tattered brick.

It made his chest tight and his body heavy to look down on the alley. It was barren save for the trash bin. But, for Miles, it was as haunted as any place in the city could be.

Mouth dry, Miles glanced over to the wall where he threw up the memorial to his uncle a month ago. It was already faded some, the sun must have hit the alley more than Miles estimated. He should have risked putting a finish on it, but then his father would have eventually noticed it and had questions about how Miles knew where Uncle Aaron had died.

It took a painstaking moment for Miles to finally rip himself away from the alley and continue the less than a block from the bus stop to the two-story home of May Parker.

In the last month, Uncle Aaron’s onsite memorial had faded obscurely in the background for most people, but the stacks in memoriam to Peter Parker seemed to be ever-growing, ever-changing. Wooden stars of David lined with bows and web decorated masks, candies and stuffed animals, pictures, melted candles, paper floats, weighted down balloons. It was impressive and daunting. And, a month later, more than a little messy.

Just from his small contact with May Parker, Miles had to imagine that she was not a fan of her yard becoming a cheap reminder of her son every day. The pain of it — similar to that pain for Uncle Aaron which had kept Miles away from Forest Hills — had to be unbearable.

For Miles, though, the real surprise came from the bent and folded signs which underscored the same message. _RIP the REAL Spider-Man. Missed NOT FORGOTTEN OR REPLACED._

The last one caught his eye as he stood at the start of the sidewalk.

Thinking back to his missed lit class, Miles pulled out one of his fat sharpies and frowned. He leaned over and scribbled a messy _N_ onto the sign so that _NOR_ read more correctly on the board.

Running out of distractions and delays, Miles finally walked up toward the house and reached out to knock on the door when he heard low voices from the other side of the wall. He hesitated, eyes narrowing intently on the doorknob before he leaned in.

“I should have been here more, May, I’m sorry,” he heard a faintly familiar voice say. “Truth be told, I haven’t been much of anywhere since…”

Glancing away from the door, Miles could see that the lone front window had the glow of light. He knew there was a living room on the other side and that it would be awkward to explain his presence to most company.

He _should_ turn around and come back another time. But the voice was so familiar he just _had_ to know where he knew it from.

Glancing around the neighborhood, Miles made certain he wasn’t going to be seen before he reached out with both hands and begun sticking to the siding of the house.

After crawling toward the window, Miles timidly stuck his head down to look upside-down through the Parker house and catch a glimpse of May sitting on the plastic-lined couch with her guest.

The flash of brilliant red hair, the designer coat — Miles knew almost immediately who he was looking at.

“Mary Jane,” he mumbled to himself.

May reached forward and took Mary Jane’s hands into her own, squeezing them affectionately. “I know,” May said affectionately. She sounded heartbroken. “The important thing now, though, is we’re in this together. And I mean that.”

That was all May needed to say before Mary Jane let out a loud sob, folding forward and only catching herself on May’s shoulder before continuing to cry.

The two women held each other for a long time.

It made Miles feel intrusive and dirty to witness the moment. He cringed as he pulled himself back and away from the window.

Whatever was going on with the two Parker women didn’t involve him, and there was no telling how long that they would be wrapped up in their emotions. As they deserved to be.

Miles knocking on the door and blurting out _Hey, Ms. P, mind lending me more of your nephew’s stuff?_ was downright ghoulish.

Still, he came all the way out to the middle of Queens, and Miles needed to make sure he spent as much time away for the second time as possible.

Everything in Forest Hills was too raw. For him. For Aunt May. For everyone.

But Miles only had enough fare on him for a one-way trip _to_ Forest Hills. He had nothing to get him back because he was supposed to be able to make his _own_ way back.

“Man,” Miles whined to himself.

Sticking to the walls, Miles climbed upward, away from the window and the all-too-private moment. By the time he reached the rooftop, it was simple enough to flip onto the top and walk to the back slope of the roofing.

He glanced over the obvious patches and still present damage to the singles. For a moment, he hesitated and wondered if he should have done more to repair the damage from the large fight he brought to May’s doorstep. A pang of regret came over his system.

Pushing it down, Miles shook his head and tried to focus on the _immediate_ needs he could address.

The moment his feet hit the grounds of the backyard, Miles could _feel_ what he needed to do. May had told him before that she rigged the shed entrance to let him have access whenever he needed it. And Miles, while appreciative, had made a point of _avoiding_ needing it until that moment.

The lock popped off, a faint glow of a spider emblem dazzling Miles again as he approached.

It was still amazing — that May and Peter had built so much with so little available to them. Miles _knew_ they had connections, access, experience with science and fields that would have made _Ganke’s_ eyes swim in confusion. But walking onto the platform and descending into the original Spider-Man’s lair still felt like a dream.

Once he began to descend, Miles noticed voices and explosive glows of alternating colors. His eyes widened as he recognized some of the lights and sounds to be of the other Spider-People’s portals — mysteriously showing up on the large computer screens below. There were _also,_ though, images and people he had _never_ seen before.

“That looks suspicious,” Miles said, flipping his backpack around and quickly changing while the platform still descended.

The moment his suit was in order, Miles threw his backpack over his back and crouched, eyes narrowed. His body flickered into nothingness as he easily camouflaged into the world around him.

There was nothing too out of the ordinary beyond the computer screens. He crawled in preparation of things changing, but it continued to seem ordinary.

“Maybe Ms. Parker still comes down here,” he decided out loud, circling the main areas of the lair.

He came to a stop in front of the gala of costumes where he had taken his own. He looked and, with some apprehension, saw a new suit where his had once been.

It was tattered and bloody, broken up in pieces, with the eye lens shattered out.

Miles had seen the suit before, but not on a mannequin.

Slowly, Miles dropped his camouflage and continued to stare at the suit his hero had died in. He could see himself — small and insignificant, his face barely overlapping with Peter Parker’s chest.

Slowly, Miles reached up and placed his hand on the glass, pressing against the spider of Peter’s chest, running his thumb across it. He didn’t know if it was an apology, an appreciative thanks, or if it was anything at all.

All Miles knew was that it felt like there was more than glass and a few centimeters of empty space between himself and the Spider-Man who used to be.

His senses blared, a tickling feeling down his spine and neck.

Miles pulled his hand from the glass and looked over his shoulder just as the lift began to ascend without him.

Irrationally, his first thought was _ghost._

Again, _screaming_ that time, his senses picked up and Miles dropped to the floor just before a green blur sliced through the air with enough force to bust open several of the glass display cases.

“Well, well, well,” a _very_ familiar voice spoke in delight from behind Miles. He looked to her — seeing the familiar wild hair, eyes beady behind thick octagonal glasses, and a sharp, pointed face. “If it isn’t Peter’s little _invisible friend_ back again.”

“Dock Ock?” Miles gasped.


End file.
